


Knowing Me, Knowing You

by beetovan



Series: to grow a garden for you [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Unrequited Love, i don't want to give away too much in the tags but this one is SAD, moon taeil is the best hyung, qian kun is a great leader, winwin doesn't know how to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetovan/pseuds/beetovan
Summary: It’d been more than last time. Much more, from how the entire surface of the water had been covered. He’s supposed to be getting better. He’s promised so many people he’s getting better. But he’s not, and he knows why, but he still denies.Sicheng will fall out of love. It’s just with someone as bright and overwhelming as Nakamoto Yuta, it’ll take time. His schedule is begging for the disease to pass, but Sicheng’s heart clings desperately.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first NCT fic! I've been working on this one for a long, long time now, and I'm really excited to post part one! Hanahaki au's have always fascinated me, as well as Winwin's feelings for Yuta and how he expresses his emotions. He's such an introverted person, so exploring his inner dialogue was super fun to do. I hope you all enjoy!

Sicheng knows exactly what led him to this, hunched over the toilet bowl of one of the side bathrooms in the 127 dorm, coughing so forcefully it echoes in the small room. His body aches, lungs tight under his ribs and trying their damndest to force out all obstructions. He’s gasping, each breath like wet fire shooting down his throat. 

It takes a while now, to force it all out, longer than when he first got sick. The petals, so delicate and thin, like to cling to every surface and tickle every nerve lining his larynx. There’s nothing he can do but just keep coughing, rough and painful and concerning until the flowers are forced out of his mouth and into the cool water of the toilet bowl.

The first time Sicheng had seen them, he’d been terrified. The petals are bright red, tipped at the inner corner with white, then black. The first petal to fall from his mouth into his hand had been so vibrant he had mistaken it for blood. But it had been light, solid, and _ soft _in his palm. It took a few minutes for his anxious mind to connect the dots. 

Now he just heaves, his throat constricting with gags from the force of his coughs, until finally the passage feels clear. With sweat dripping from his temple he flushes the toilet, watching bright red disappear down the drain. 

It’d been more than last time. Much more, from how the entire surface of the water had been covered. He’s supposed to be getting better. He’s promised so many people he’s getting better. But he’s not, and he knows why, but he still denies. 

Sicheng will fall out of love. It’s just with someone as bright and overwhelming as Nakamoto Yuta, it’ll take time. His schedule is begging for the disease to pass, but Sicheng’s heart clings desperately. 

“You don’t love him anymore,” he murmurs to the clean tile of the bathroom floor. The more he tells himself, the quicker it’ll become true. 

The mask hanging around his neck is tugged back over his mouth, and he wobbles to his feet. After rinsing his hands under the sink, he exits the bathroom. It’s quiet in the dorm, and it settles Sicheng’s pounding heart. 

Anyone would try to send him to the doctor if they’d overheard his fit in the bathroom. Their concern would be unnecessary. He’s going to get a handle on it. It’ll just take more time. 

But with the way his chest aches and his breathing stays labored, Sicheng wonders how much time he really has left. 

…

The only thing on Sicheng’s mind when he left home to become a SM trainee had been that he had to _ make it _ . He’s going to a country he doesn’t now, surrounded by people who speak a language he’s only a beginner in. He’s sacrificing _ so much _, so all he could chase is his dream. Anything else would be a distraction. A hazard. 

He doesn’t even make it a day before his resolve starts to crumble. 

He’s terrified, standing pigeon-footed in the main dance room with his eyes flitting everywhere but the other trainees when the manager introduces him. With a deep, awkward bow, Sicheng stutters through his Korean name (Dong Sasung, a name similar enough and foreign enough that the title makes him wriggle uncomfortably) in a heavily accented voice. There’s a smattering of claps, and when Sicheng straightens he sees such a variety of expressions worn on the faces in the room that has his heart hammers harder. 

Sicheng feels lightheaded, and he worries for a brief second that he’s going to pass out just from the stress of it all until a smile catches his eye. It’s not even the boy, at first. Just the perfect stretch of lips shaped around straight, white teeth that draws him in. He’s never seen such unadulterated joy portrayed so beautifully through a person’s mouth. His eyes flicker over the face that houses the smile, and his breath hitches. 

The boy is handsome in a way Sicheng doesn’t expect out of an idol. He’s got big, dark eyes and high cheekbones, but he’s so classically masculine and bold that Sicheng would peg him as a golden athlete, not a future SM idol. When they lock eyes that grin only grows, if that’s possible, and the boy settles back in his weight confidently. 

When the manager lets the others greet him Sicheng is too distracted to think of the boy. He tries to absorb names and faces, stuttering through the phrases he’d memorized on the plane ride over. There’s another boy that approaches him, the poster boy for everything SM represents. Narrow face, big eyes, a bold brow bone, and a serious little mouth. He smiles, features softening, and takes Sicheng’s hand. 

“Lee Taeyong,” he greets, and there’s so much comfort to be found in between his pressed palms. This boy holds himself differently, his shoulders more squared and his legs straight. There’s already the air of a leader around him. Sicheng knows he’s the last to be added to the lineup of this unofficial group, so the roles must already be settled. Lee Taeyong wears the burden of leadership well. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sicheng replies, because it’s one of the few greetings he knows. His hand is trembling in Taeyong’s own, and he feels the other man’s grip tighten. 

“You’re a dancer, right?” Taeyong continues. The handshake ends, so Taeyong steps next to him and throws his arm around Sicheng’s shoulder. It’s too familiar for only meeting moments ago, but Sicheng knows it would be rude to wriggle out of the other man’s touch. So he stays, trying not to grimace at their proximity. 

“Yes, I trained for many years.” God, he hates this. Hates how he can only communicate on the level of a toddler. He’d love to elaborate, to explain that he’s not just a dancer. He’s spent years at some of the most prestigious arts academies in China, his name known around the country for his skills in traditional dance. He wants to explain what makes him worthy of earning the title of SM trainee other than having a pretty face and long limbs. 

The answer seems to satisfy Taeyong though, as he strokes his hand down the back of Sicheng’s neck like he’s an affectionate cat before flouncing back over to one of the younger boys. Taeyong catches him around the waist, and the boy (Mark? One of the foreign ones) yelps and squeaks out a _ ‘hyung!’ _in a cracking voice. 

Left alone again, Sicheng starts to fidget with his hands behind his back. His eyes dart nervously around the room, until finally they settle on that handsome boy from before. It’s like he can sense Sicheng’s gaze, because immediately his eyes flicker over and another one of those smiles brighten on his face. Finally he lopes over, so lazy and casual that Sicheng is weary he’s going to hate him for his cockiness. 

“I’m your new roommate, you know,” the other says as he approaches. Sicheng startles at that, which makes the man laugh. It’s a pretty sound. “They told us earlier that the newbie would be moving in with us. Taeil-hyung and I are the only ones with an extra bed anyway, so it makes sense.”

Taeil, Sicheng tries to remember which one that is. The other must see his confusion so he points a finger. 

“That’s Taeil-hyung. Short, a little weird, best singer in this goddamn company. You might get along, you both seem awkward.” 

Right, he remembers Taeil now. He had been one of the first to introduce himself, his hair choppy and hiding his eyes and his smile wide and tight. He’s another one that Sicheng thinks has a unique visual, just like the tall guy with thick limbs and lips perpetually curled in a pixie-like smirk (American?) and the tiny Thai kid with a swooping nose and kitten-ish eyes with thighs so defined he must also be a dancer. 

“What is your name?” Sicheng finally ventures, because out of all of the boys crowding the room, he has yet to find out what to call the one that captured his attention the most. 

“Nakamoto Yuta,” he answers. 

Sicheng’s stomach flutters, and all he can think is that his name is _ pretty _, especially with the ease that Yuta recites it. There’s a part of him that’s writhing in relief to know that Yuta is also a foreigner. Though Korean falls from his tongue like a native, it gives Sicheng hope that he won’t be alone in this. That maybe this handsome, smiling roommate can guide him through the pain of being so, so far away from home. 

“Please take care of me, Yuta-ssi,” Sicheng replies with a bow. There’s a waver in his tone, almost pleading, and when he looks back up into Yuta’s eyes he sees something comforting there. 

“How could I say no to that cute face?” Yuta pinches Sicheng’s cheek, and immediately Sicheng stiffens, face falling into a frown. Yuta laughs, boisterous and cackling, and releases Sicheng’s baby fat from between his fingers. “You’re going to have to get used to touching. The hyungs are very affectionate and weak for cute things.” 

“I’ll try, Yuta-ssi.” How he’s going to manage that, Sicheng has no idea. His family, his friends, his classmates, they’re all so much more reserved than the casualness he’s seen from his future group mates.

Even now one of the younglings is hanging off of the big American’s arm, lips pursed and trying to overcome the three feet of distance between his eager mouth and the older man’s cheek. The older doesn’t seem phased at all, just smiles dotingly and presses his pointer finger to the younger boy’s forehead until he stumbles back onto his butt with a high-pitched whine. Like a mother responding to the cry of her injured child, another of the older members (pretty eyes, gummy smile) pulls the young boy off the ground and into his arms. The young boy buries his face in the older boy’s chest and even muffled by a t-shirt and halfway across the room Sicheng can hear him warble _ ‘Johnny-hyung is mean!’ _

“Hey.” Sicheng’s attention immediately snaps back to Yuta, his eyes widening. Did he offend the elder by letting his attention drift from him? But Yuta’s face is calm, eyes boring into Sicheng’s with sincerity. “I know it’s scary kid, but they’re all good people. We’re all here chasing the same dream, and the only way to get there is to do it together. So just trust me, trust your hyungs, and I promise I’ll take care of you.” 

They’re lofty words, coming from a stranger. Far too grandiose for Sicheng to believe. But he already feels those words lodging in his chest, unfurling some of the tension there. It must be Yuta’s smile, there’s no way any lies could be produced from a mouth like that. 

Too overwhelmed to respond, Sicheng just presses his lips together and nods, eyes dropping to his feet. Yuta hums next to him. 

“Can I ask you something?” Yuta continues. Sicheng nods. “What’s your real name? Your Chinese one?” 

Sicheng looks up, lips parting in surprise. Then, he flushes. 

“Dong Sicheng,” he says shyly. 

“Sicheng,” Yuta repeats, and it’s not quite right but it’s enough to make Sicheng’s eyes sting with a promise of tears. Pleased with himself, Yuta grins. “Let’s work hard, Sichengie.” 

Sicheng smiles, ducking his head. 

“Of course, Yuta-ssi,” he replies, and wonders how the other man has earned so much of Sicheng’s trust already. 

…

Falling in love with Yuta turns out to be an inescapable truth for Sicheng. The mere thought of feeling attraction for any of his bandmates hadn’t even crossed his mind before he left for Korea. Never before had Sicheng felt that spark, and he’s never seen someone who’s figure his eyes follow in a room.

Back in China he had just assumed he’s straight and hasn’t found the right girl. He’s always been too focused on his goals to ever spare a thought for frivolous things such as dating. He’s seen what it does to his fellow classmates. It makes them distracted, hazy. He sees them withdraw from the world to be with their other half, filling their time and their head with nothing but thoughts for their fleeting fancy until the youthful attraction fades. 

Maybe it’s because they’re older, or maybe it’s because they’re thrown into the Hell that is trainee life, that Sicheng’s budding feelings for Yuta aren’t born out of heart-fluttering interest but out of a deep trust, and a deep desperation. 

Yuta is the guiding hand that keeps him afloat throughout his first months at SM. He’s a patient translator, repeating the flurrying conversations of the other’s words slower and in simpler terms to keep Sicheng from feeling lonely in their midst. When the dance instructor snaps at Sicheng for being too stiff, too deliberate (as he’s been praised his entire life) Yuta stays after and helps Sicheng break down all of the traditional training he’s received and rebuild over it with the more explosive hip-hop style that the instructors want. 

Sicheng clings, and Yuta adores. It’s hard not to notice the arm that is constantly around his shoulders, the cooing in Yuta’s voice when they speak, his own face decorating Yuta’s lockscreen. For all of the favors, all of the doting Yuta gifts Sicheng with, Sicheng knows it’s not because he’s being a good elder, or because he expects something in return. Not when Yuta mercilessly mocks young Mark and pushes away Donghyuk’s affections. Sicheng knows his obsession with the elder is returned in fold. It’s not healthy, but what can be in their situation? How can you have any form of a healthy relationship when you’re coworkers, roommates, and competitors? 

They’re all a little warped, a little too invested in each other. He sees it in the way Taeyong diligently pours over Japanese language books, even with so much already piled onto his plate. He sees it in the way Johnny laughs loud and indulgently at everything Taeil says, eyes so sparkling and fond it earns a ghost of pity from Sicheng. At least Taeil is kind enough to pat Johnny’s shoulder in return, even though there’s only mild amusement in his eyes when he looks at Johnny. He sees it in the way Mark very forcefully pushes Donghyuk away, complaining loudly for anyone to hear about how much he hates the attention, and yet he can’t hide the relief in his big eyes everytime Donghyuk attempts to play with him. And Donghyuk will always, always try, no matter how wounded he looks whenever Mark shoves him off. 

None of it is normal, how dedicated they are to each other’s happiness. But it’s the only life preserver they have in this world of rigid schedules and criticizing employers. 

So maybe the consuming flame he fosters for Yuta is too roaring, too bright for a first-time crush. But Sicheng _ needs _him, needs him to pet his hair and watch silly anime with him and shove off any hands of their members that try to baby him in the same way, a warning glare in his eyes. That flame is the only thing that keeps him from drowning. So he lets it grow and grow, and sees its brightness reflected in Yuta’s eyes. 

With the nature of their relationship, it comes as a surprise to both of them that Sicheng is the one who makes the first move. 

It’s on a night when they have a late call the next day. Taeil has escaped to Mark’s room, where the vocalists have apparently gathered to let off steam, singing along to whatever songs Mark has diligently learned on his acoustic guitar. 

He and Yuta are on Yuta’s bed, dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts. Yuta’s fresh from the shower, and his damp hair smells so crisply of his shampoo. The whole bed carries the scent of Yuta, and Sicheng wants to bury himself in the comforter. Instead they lean against the wall, Sicheng’s laptop balanced on both of their thighs. Sicheng doesn’t remember the name of the anime they’re watching, his mind too relaxed to be able to keep up with the Korean subtitles and rapid Japanese of the characters (these nights are posed as a study tool, for Sicheng to get used to the foreign hangul on the screen) but instead he just rests his head on Yuta’s shoulder and fights to keep his eyelids open. 

“Sichengie,” Yuta giggles. The female character on screen has a cherry-red blush on her cheeks, her words nasal and stammering. The male lead is leaning in close, hand braced on the wall the girl is trapped against. Their faces are close, though she won’t meet his eyes. “Sichengie, say what she said. Hyung wants to hear you say it.” 

It’s a common demand. Yuta always makes Sicheng repeat the lines of the female protagonist, and always giggles afterwards, hands clapping together. It’s so easy to please him, especially in his native tongue. 

Sicheng sits up, looking down at where Yuta is still slumped against the wall. His hair has dried in slight waves against his forehead, and his skin looks so golden without a veil of BB cream. 

“Sichengie, do it for hyung,” Yuta whines. Sicheng doesn’t. 

Instead he leans forward and clumsily smooshes his mouth against Yuta’s. His nose presses harshly against Yuta’s cheek and Sicheng’s slightly off target, his lips trapping Yuta’s bottom one between his own. There’s too much force behind it, so uncoordinated and ungraceful. Sicheng sits back quickly and just stares at Yuta, heart racing in his chest. 

Yuta just stares right back at him. They’re silent for a few beats, both breathing harshly into the air between them. Slowly, Yuta sits up. 

“My pretty Sicheng,” Yuta murmurs. His hand cups Sicheng’s cheek, and Sicheng flinches at the unexpected touch. He settles though, letting the weight of his head be cradled in Yuta’s warm palm. He feels so overwhelmed, so out of his element, that there are tears springing in his eyes. They don’t fall, but it makes Sicheng’s chest feel tight and delicate. Close to shattering. 

Yuta shifts to his knees so he’s face to face with Sicheng. His hand moves from Sicheng’s cheek to tuck some hair behind Sicheng’s ear then flutter to the back of his neck. 

“Was that your first kiss, baby?” Yuta cocks his head, and his voice is deeper now. A shiver zips down Sicheng’s spine and he nods carefully. Yuta makes a pleased noise. “What did I do to deserve such a sweet gift?” 

Sicheng blinks his eyes closed. He draws bravery from the darkness, from not seeing Yuta’s intense gaze meeting his own. 

“There’s no one else I’ve wanted to give it to,” he breathes. “Only you.” 

The hand on his neck tightens, and the sound Yuta’s breath hitches into silence. 

“Look at me Sicheng.” There’s no room for argument, so Sicheng opens his eyes. Yuta looks flushed and a little overwhelmed. 

“You are so precious to me,” Yuta says, voice dipping into a serious tone. “You’ve always been more than another little brother to me. I was just never sure how you felt about me.”

“I like you hyung,” Sicheng cuts in quickly. His body feels jittery, so a fluttery hand raises to pat Yuta’s arm. “_ I like you _ ,” he repeats in Japanese, the phrase so practiced because Yuta always, _ always _ made him say it whenever the cute girl in one of their shows confesses. 

A brilliant smile lights Yuta’s face, and Sicheng feels giddy. What a beautiful man, his Yuta. A beautiful, caring man. 

“Can I kiss you again, Sicheng?” Yuta asks through his grin, his hand still resting on the nape of Sicheng’s neck. 

“Please.” 

When Yuta kisses him, it speaks of experience. His head tilts, his lips part slightly, and he finds Sicheng’s mouth with ease. He kisses firm but tame, holding Sicheng close and stroking his thumb against the coarse hairs at the back of his neck to soothe him. It only lasts for a few moments before Yuta pulls away and tugs Sicheng into a hug. 

“It’s you and me,” Yuta murmurs. Sicheng tucks his face into Yuta’s neck and clings. “It’s you and me and that’s all we need to worry about.” 

By the time Taeil returns to the room that night, Sicheng is back in his own bed with his headphones on while Yuta is already fast asleep in his own. There’s no sign of anything monumental happening in his absence, so Taeil just smiles, flicks off the lights, and climbs into his own bed like he does every night. None the wiser. 

***

It’s not the first time Sicheng has to rehearse after spending what seems like hours locked in the bathroom hacking up his lungs. It’s not even remotely close to the first time. Three months he’s been sick, and the petals quickly become a daily occurrence. They fit easily into his daily schedule, like they’re penciled in. Wake up, change, shower, eat breakfast with the boys, hide the fact that there’s a plant slowly suffocating him as he vomits petals for fifteen minutes into the toilet, then off to dance practice! 

It’s something he’s grown used to, so why is he struggling so much? He can’t feel the plant in his throat, the telltale fluttering of petals ready to force their way up. But as he dances his lungs feel tight, burning with every breath he pulls in. There’s a sheen of sweat clinging thickly to his forehead minutes after their warm-up and into their real practice. He’s constantly clearing his throat, ignoring the pain that shoots up his trachea. It doesn’t help, but the sound attracts Kun’s sharp gaze every single time. Sicheng avoids his gaze in the mirror. 

They’re scheduled for three hours of straight dancing today. It’s Kun, Dejun, Guanheng, and himself. He’s mostly there as a formality. The Regular choreography does not change much between iterations, and Sicheng has done this twice before. He’s there as the model, the pace keeper as the others familiarize themselves with the more unfamiliar moves. This practice is not for him, and yet he’s the one who’s struggling the most. 

The room spins as he pushes himself through the thirty-minute mark. It’s thanks to years and years of training that his struggle does not reflect in his form. He drifts through the choreography like a machine that doesn’t realize it’s hemorrhaging for fuel until the brakes are applied. When the music is on Sicheng dances, face set in an idol mask and his limbs never ceasing movement. It doesn’t matter that his breath can’t support the exercion, that his vision dots with black and his head swims. Sicheng is an idol, and he can push through anything, so even if his heart is to stop on stage his feet won’t.

It’s when the music stops that it becomes evident Sicheng is not okay. His legs tremble underneath him, and he coughs and coughs into the mask he pulls over his mouth. There aren’t petals, but Sicheng can taste thick, coppery droplets on his tongue. The blood is a new development as well. One he’s managed to keep to himself, even from those who are aware of his illness. But Sicheng has never had a cough that hasn’t been followed by petals. And he’s never felt this breathless from such little exertion. This morning’s trip to the bathroom must have debilitated him more than he had realized. 

“Let’s take fifteen guys,” Kun calls with a clap of his hands. There’s a charming smile on his face, but Sicheng can see the glint in his eyes when his gaze passes over Sicheng’s. 

“Ge.” Guanheng’s voice draws his attention, and he blinks at the water bottle tilted towards his face. He hadn’t heard the younger approach. He must really be out of it, because there is nothing quiet about Guanheng, nor unnoticeable. 

“Are you okay, ge?” Guanheng’s voice is quiet for privacy. Dejun and Kun are chatting on the other side of the room, though Kun keeps catching his eye with a look that signals he wants to talk. 

Sicheng turns to Guanheng and smiles from behind his mask. He takes the bottle from the younger man and tucks it to his chest. He doesn’t want to take off his mask in front of the other, but his throat feels like it’s on fire. His fingers dig desperately into the plastic, but he holds off. 

“I just have a cold Hen.” Sicheng’s face stays impassive, even at the croaking sound of his voice. If he acts like it’s normal, then the others will start to think that it’s normal. Any show of weakness and they’ll pounce. 

“We can call Ten if you’re not feeling well,” Guanheng murmurs. There’s worry sparkling in his wide eyes. It makes guilt gnaw at his gut, but he knows the guilt of delaying their debut would hurt even worse, so he bears it. Just like he has for months now. 

“Why don’t you do that Hen,” Kun’s voice interrupts. Sicheng cuts a glare at him, and Kun returns it with a tight smile. “Sichengie, can I talk to you outside for a moment? Then you’re going back to the dorm to rest.” 

Sicheng isn’t going to argue with him in front of the younger two. So Sicheng just squares his shoulders and marches out of the practice room with Kun following close behind. He leads them further into the building, into a hallway lined with unused practice rooms. Once they’re far enough away from prying ears does Kun turn on him. 

“Take off your mask,” he says coldly. Sicheng unhooks on ear and lets it fall into his hand. He carefully wipes his lips with his knuckles, and they come away with the slightest smudge of red. 

“It’s just a bad morning,” Sicheng states. His illness is not a linear one. There are days when he coughs up only a single petal, and others where he has to curl up in bed with a wet washcloth over his eyes, shielded from the world by Taeil’s guardianship. It’s a bad day, and there’s no telling what the following days will hold. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Kun’s pretty eyebrows pinch together. There’s a look on his leader’s face that makes Sicheng shift uneasily on his feet. Kun is by far the most patient man he has ever met in his life. He takes cuts about his weight, his age, his dancing and singing and magic tricks with a bright smile, because he loves his members and knows not to take their jokes with any seriousness. He sits down on the phone with mothers to handwrite recipe cards from home, when they boys are feeling homesick. He sits in more meetings with higher-ups than Sicheng ever remembers Taeyong having to suffer through.

But there is no patience reflected in Kun’s face today. Now Kun looks like a man, angry and close to snapping. It’s a Kun that frightens Sicheng, not out of fear of violence but fear of the power Kun wields as leader. The power he draws from knowing about Sicheng’s illness. 

“I have waited far too long for you to get better,” Kun begins. “If it were up to me you would have gotten the surgery the moment the doctor offered it to you. But I listened to you, and I listened to our managers. You said it could get better on it’s own.”

“It is getting better,” Sicheng cuts in petulantly. The lie tastes like flowers and iron on his tongue. 

“You’re not!” Kun has _ never _risen his voice like this. The raw anger causes Sicheng to shiver. “You’re not okay, Sicheng! You’re not magically getting cured! I’m not going to stand here and watch you waste away every day, too stubborn to let go of Nakamoto Yuta.”

That stings, and Sicheng’s own anger bubbles to the surface. 

“I’m doing this for _ us _ Kun! I’m doing this for the other boys! How long have we waited to debut? How long have they put us off? If I have to go on medical leave for an entire _ year _ , what would that do to the kids? To Dejun and Yangyang and Guanheng who left their homes for this? For Ten who has waited since _ Rookies _for this! I’m not going to let this get in the way of our debut.”

Kun’s face twists even further. 

“You are dying Sicheng!” It echoes in the hallway. “If you don’t get this surgery now, you won’t even _ make _ it to debut! Do you want the others to have your blood on their hands? Will Yangyang or Guanheng or Dejun walk into your room one morning to wake up their ge only to find he suffocated in his sleep because he was too goddamn _ stubborn _to get treatment?” 

Sicheng hates how the image is painted in his mind at his words. Of sweet Dejun pushing into his room in the early morning, his mug of tea in his hands. He’d sit on the edge of Sicheng’s bed, touch his shoulder gently to rouse him. When there’s no movement, Dejun would try again. And Sicheng’s body would roll onto its back. There’d be petals littered all around his sheets, all around his mouth, with spit and blood dried to his lips and chin. Sicheng would be cold, and stiff, and Dejun would scream and scream until the others in the dorm stumbled into his room. 

Sicheng is started out of his daydream by the slamming of a door. Both he and Kun jump, and their eyes shoot to the source of the sound. 

A few doors down Yangyang steps out of one of the small practice room, horror painted all over his face. Jaemin is behind him, looking guilty and weary but there’s no way for him to understand the weight of the situation. Not like Yangyang. 

“What’s going _ on _,” Yangyang gasps. “Sicheng-ge, what does Kun-ge mean? You’re dy- you’re sick?” 

Kun rubs at his temples. “Yangyang, you shouldn’t eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.” 

“You were yelling!” Yangyang protests. “I’ve never heard you yelling before, I got worried. And I was right to be! How could you hide this from us?”

Yangyang is crying now, a few fat tears slipping down his cheeks. Sicheng wants to go comfort him, but he feels too numb inside. Like this entire conversation is just an echo at the bottom of the well, and Sicheng is far, far above it. 

The tears are enough to snap Kun back into his leaderly instincts. He crosses the hall and takes Yangyang by the shoulders. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? I promise you that everything's going to be alright. Sicheng-ge will be fine, he just needs to see he needs help. We’ll help him Yangie, don’t worry.” 

Yangyang doesn’t seem convinced as his eyes cut over to Sicheng. He looks down at the blood-speckled mask in his hand, to whatever horror Sicheng’s face must be. 

“We’ll talk about it Yangie,” Sicheng repeats, because that’s all he can do now. The secret is out, spilling between his fingers like water from melting ice. It’s an inevitability, the others realizing that Sicheng’s careful pretending is all a ruse. A part of him is surprised it’s lasted this long. But now he has to be resigned to talking about it. Tell his side of the story, and not let Kun twist his concern into a melodramatic narrative. It’s Sicheng with the flowers in his lungs, and his business alone. If someone is speaking it’s Sicheng. 

“Go on, run off with Jaemin-ah. I’ll call a meeting tomorrow.” Kun says this in Korean, and Jaemin perks. Yangyang nods, a pitiful little sniffle marking his departure as he turns to the Dream member and disappears back into the room they started in. With the younger boys gone Kun turns back to Sicheng. 

“I’m sorry,” he says lowly, and Sicheng can see the fight has left him. Sicheng presses his lips together and nods. 

“It’s my fault as much as it is yours,” Sicheng concedes. Kun opens his arms and wraps Sicheng in a tight hug. 

“Nothing is your fault, Sicheng. You don’t deserve any of this.” Kun’s voice is tight with emotions. “Stop punishing yourself with this. You’re allowed to get better. You’re allowed to move on.”

Kun pulls away and places his hand on Sicheng’s chest. 

“Your body is yours before it’s SM’s. Your life is _ yours _, Sicheng. Do what you think is best. But talk to us, at least. You don’t need to keep this all to yourself. We’re your brothers, we can help you. Just… just talk to me.” 

“Okay, Kun-ge. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Sicheng assures. He returns Kun’s hug, pressing his cheek to the top of Kun’s head. Kun squeezes him tight, so tight that his sore lungs ache in protest. Sicheng squeezes him back. 

It’s here in his leader’s arms that he lets his fear creep in. He’s been denying it for so long, but how much longer does he really have? Realistically? His body trembles even now, shaking with fatigue just from hours of being awake. Sicheng is running out of options, and time. 

Is it worth it, dying for Nakamoto Yuta? What will it prove, if he lets his love consume him? Will it allow him to repent for all of the mistakes he made when they were together? 

Sicheng hugs Kun, knowing moments like these are most likely limited. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so you may have noticed the chapters number has jumped from 2 to 3. i felt like i couldn't tell the full story in just two chapters. from what i have mapped out three should be plenty, plus an epilogue i'm working on as well. i've also bumped the rating from m to e because the intimate scene between sicheng and yuta is more explicit than i had originally planned so i thought better safe than sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likes and comments are greatly appreciated <3

The night Sicheng first coughs up a flower petal is the last night he and Yuta ever make love. It’s an ironic thing to think. A disease born out of unrequited love just so happens to manifest simultaneously when a longtime couple connects on the most intimate level. Maybe it’s the poetry of it that has Sicheng clinging so stubbornly to the flower in his lungs. It’s like an innocent school girl game, ‘he loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not’. Though each petal is a glaring reminder of loves me not, loves me not, loves me not, painfully bold in the palm of his hands. 

It goes like this. There’s over a month of tension between them. Sicheng is unable to express what he’s feeling, so he shuts Yuta out. Yuta fights with each passing day to pry into Sicheng’s stubborn heart, only to go frustrated and hot-tempered and so he snaps at Sicheng instead of trying to help. It’s a terrible mix of miscommunication, stress, and the lumbering due date of the NCT Chinese subunit. Of when Sicheng will be ripped from 127’s grasp and thrust into another country, another language, far away from Yuta. The love is there, but the patience is not, the communication is not. They’re miserable and in love, with no clue how to solve it. The other members have been giving them a wide berth, hoping the pair can resolve it on their own. 

Sicheng finds himself alone in their shared room often. He sits on his bed with his knees tucked to his chest, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his hair. He stares at the door, unsure what to feel. It’s how Yuta finds him when he enters. Their eyes lock involuntarily, and Yuta swallows visibly. They’re both silent as the elder crosses the room. He takes Sicheng by the shoulders and presses him back into the pillows before climbing on top. Those dark eyes meet his in an unreadable stare down. 

Finally Yuta ducks down, pressing a closed-mouth kiss against Sicheng’s lips. 

“Sichengie,” he murmurs. They haven’t spoken to each other all day, so the sound of his boyfriend’s voice jolts his heart. “Let’s have sex.”

Have sex. How passive. It’s been so long since they’ve done so much as touch each other like this, since he’s had Yuta’s strong thighs squeezing against his hips. Maybe it’s what they need to work out the tension between them. Sicheng’s no good at words, and he’s even worse with skinship. But the language of bodies is one Sicheng is fluent in with Yuta. So he nods and arches his back off of the bed. Yuta grabs the hem of his sweatshirt and pulls it off over his head. 

It seems like talking is done after that. Yuta keeps his face hidden in any way he can as they proceed. At first he’s distracted finding the lube. Then he’s focused on stripping the two of them. When they’re bare and a pillow is tucked under Sicheng’s hips, Yuta is intently staring at where his hand disappears between Sicheng’s thighs. 

It’s so oddly clinical. Winwin stares at the top of Yuta’s head from where he hovers over him, because he doesn’t have a view of much else. Yuta prepares him with practiced ease, but there’s no joy in it. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t get distracted trying to kiss his way into Sicheng’s mouth like he normally does. Sicheng isn’t even hard. His dick lies limply against his hip, and Yuta pays it no mind. Sicheng doesn’t even think Yuta is hard either. 

“Turn over for me,” Yuta says softly once he pulls his fingers away. Sicheng blinks at him but complies. He settles onto his knees and forearms, lower back arching. He doesn’t look behind him.

It takes a few moments for anything to happen. Sicheng can hear the slick sound of lube on skin working behind him. It’s longer than what could be considered wetting himself enough to enter. 

Finally Sicheng feels him pressing at his entrance. The feeling is so familiar, and Sicheng’s body automatically relaxes. Yuta pushes in until his hips are flush against Sicheng’s cheeks. Yuta’s hands settle at Sicheng’s hips, and he begins thrusting. It’s shallow and mechanical. Sicheng can hear it in the slide of their knees against the comforter. In, out. In, out. Like the steady lapping of ocean waves against the sand. Gentle, repetitive, and enough to lull you to sleep. 

Sicheng hangs his head further and screws his eyes shut. He feels nothing, not the usual spark of pain and pleasure. It’s like he’s gone numb, body turned to inanimate porcelain from disuse. Sicheng just wants it to be over with, and it doesn’t seem like Yuta’s faring any better. Not from the steady inhale and exhale of his breath. 

Sicheng thinks of their first time. 

***

A hotel in Japan. They’re on a small break and decided to go to Sendai for a romantic getaway. After a day of exploring the shopping center, walking hand in hand on the beach, and sharing delicious room service on the balcony of their hotel, they sank together on their large bed. 

Yuta speaks to him the whole time. He never takes his eyes off of Sicheng. They kiss, kiss for what feels like hours. They strip bare and let their hands roam every new inch of skin. Sicheng traces his thumbs over Yuta’s collarbones, scratches his nails gently against the ridges of Yuta’s abs. He digs the balls of his feet into Yuta’s lower back and drags his tongue against the curl of his lower lip. 

Yuta has fingered him before, but he takes such care with it this time. He goes slow, his other hand frequently teasing the head of Sicheng’s cock to keep the lust roiling in him alive. He kisses Sicheng’s cheeks and nose and eyelids and widow’s peak. He nibbles on the pointed end of Sicheng’s elf ear. He ruts his own hardness against Sicheng’s hip, letting him feel the weight of it. Make him ache to have it inside him. 

Yuta wears a condom, and Sicheng folds himself in half to drape his legs over Yuta’s shoulders. His heels dig painfully into Yuta’s shoulder blades when he enters Sicheng for the first time. 

Sicheng whines in pain, and Yuta kisses it away. 

“I know my love, I know,” he murmurs. Sicheng feels so full, so brimming with Yuta, Yuta, Yuta. It forces the blocked up dam of emotions in him, and he cries, because it feels so good and he feels so vulnerable and they’re here, in this beautiful city in this beautiful hotel in this beautiful moment. Yuta rocks into Sicheng and nuzzles his face into Sicheng’s wet cheek. 

“I’ve got you baby,” Yuta promises, and he brings a hand to lace with Sicheng’s. They stay like that, Yuta thrusting into Sicheng and Sicheng jerking into the touch, his hand squeezing like a pulse against Yuta’s each time. They kiss until they can’t, until they’re panting and moaning and there’s sweat dripping down both of their bodies. Yuta comes first, and Sicheng only knows by the cry he lets out and the way his hips jerk out of rhythm. When he’s done he stays nestled inside, and his hand drops to jerk Sicheng off with a steady, firm grip. Sicheng cums between them with a cry and Yuta’s mouth against his throat. When he’s done Yuta lowers his legs from his shoulders and rolls onto his back, pulling Sicheng on top of him. They kiss lazily, Yuta brushing Sicheng’s hair off of his forehead and Sicheng clinging to his biceps. 

“I love you Winko,” Yuta murmurs. “I’m gonna marry you one day, my Winko. Just you wait.” 

***

It’s a memory that Sicheng has held dear ever since, and it’s enough to bring him over the edge now. His fist halts on his own cock, and he shudders as he finishes onto the sheets beneath him. When he stops moving Yuta pulls out and after a few moments Sicheng feels his cum warm and sticky against the small of his back. 

Yuta doesn’t say a word as he climbs off the bed. The bedroom door opens and closes, and Sicheng sits up. By the time he strips the sheets and puts on new ones Yuta comes back into the room with a wet washcloth. Sicheng takes it and cleans up his hands and back while Yuta putters around his side of the room. 

“I still have some energy to burn off so I’m going to go to the gym,” Yuta explains as he searches for his headphones. He’s already dressed in athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Sicheng pulls his boxers and sweatshirt back on. 

“Okay,” Sicheng hums. He feels hollow inside as he slides under the covers. There’s a strange pressure settling in his chest. He rubs at his sternum and lets his eyes fall shut. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Yuta calls from the doorway. There’s no goodbye kiss, no post-coital cuddles. There’s no evidence of what just happened aside from the mild soreness in Sicheng’s lower back. Who knew making love could be so clinical. 

Sicheng crawls under his comforter and tugs it up to his nose. He feels relieved to be alone, and he hates it. He hates how he can’t be in the same room with Yuta without feeling fissures spread in his heart. Sicheng will never love anyone the way he loves Yuta. He’s Sicheng’s soulmate. Sicheng’s life had been irrevocably changed when they met, and he knows there’s no going back. He just feels hopeless to fixing it. 

Sicheng loves Yuta, but is it enough to keep him? He’s certainly not Yuta’s first love. He’s not Yuta’s first relationship. Yuta’s so much more prepared for a break-up. He’s walked the path of mourning, acceptance, and moving on before. Yuta can leave Sicheng behind, and behind Sicheng would stay. 

Hopelessness creeps over Sicheng. Yuta has been the center of his universe ever since he first stepped foot in that practice room. He’ll be set helplessly adrift if Yuta leaves him. And maybe he deserves it, for not showing Yuta how much he needs him. How his inexperience and introversion keeps his thoughts locked deep within himself. Yuta is a simple man, and a straightforward one. He doesn’t play these games, digging for answers. What you give him is what he takes. And Sicheng hasn’t given him enough in a long, long time. Even his body isn’t enough to show Yuta how he feels. Yuta couldn’t even look him in the eyes. He had pressed Sicheng face down and got it over with, like a chore. 

The thought has Sicheng’s chest tightening. Or maybe not the thought. There’s a sudden flash of pain in his chest, one that has him sitting up with a gasp. There’s a raking feeling in his throat, forcing a cough out of him. He coughs as he feels a tickle working its way up his throat, and his hand flies to his mouth to cover it as he hacks. 

Something tickles his palm as his lungs settle. He pulls his hand back and startles as vivid red catches his eye. But it’s not blood from his throat, it’s a petal. It sits alone in the cradle of his hand, damp from his mouth. The petal is curled slightly, though it’s flat and broad. It’s all solid red, except for the very tip where it’d been plucked from its stem. There it’s a brown-black, ringed with white, bleeding into the scarlet. 

He and Yuta had just made love less than thirty minutes ago, and now there’s a flower petal in his hand. There’s a flower growing somewhere deep in his chest. And it’s growing for Yuta.

In a daze, Sicheng fumbles for his phone. He types with one hand, searching up red flowers. It doesn’t take him long to find an image that matches the specimen in his hands. Sicheng clicks the link and scans the words on the screen. 

_ Anemones are a flower that come in a variety of colors, each with their own symbolism. Red anemones in Victorian time symbolize forsaken love and forgotten affection. In Chinese culture red anemones are seen as a symbol of illness, due to their color. Similarly, in Greek culture they symbolize the death of a loved one. These flowers are typically gifted to a partner who is seen to be straying, distant, or unfaithful. It can be used to signal the end of the relationship, or as a cautionary warning that the relationship is suffering.  _

Forsaken love, forgotten affection. This is what Sicheng feels for Yuta. He’s forsaken because they’re supposed to be in love, but if this flower means anything it’s that Yuta has given up on them. Yuta is already on his path onward, and Sicheng has roots locking him into place. 

Sicheng tucks the petal under his pillow and pulls the blanket over his head. Maybe if he sleeps, he’ll wake up to this all being a dream. It doesn’t feel real, anyway. It can’t be real.

Sicheng will sleep, and Yuta will greet him in the morning with a kiss, and the only flower there’ll be are his rose-colored glasses.

***

When Sicheng steps into the practice room he shouldn’t be surprised to find two extra pairs of eyes staring back at him than are in the subunit. Chenle has seated himself right in Kun’s lap, his fingers drifting to his mouth before Kun gently guides his fingernails from between his teeth and back into his lap. Renjun is sitting on the floor in between Yangyang and Ten, and his eyes are the first Sicheng meets when he steps into the room. Whatever light chattering had been going on before he entered immediately halted. Yukhei scoots, patting the space in between him and Dejun. It seems like the safest place for him to be, so Sicheng settles onto crossed legs and looks to Kun. Their leader clears his throat and tightens his arms around Chenle’s waist. 

“Time to start the intervention,” Ten mutters under his breath. Kunhang elbows him with a glare. 

“This isn’t an intervention,” Kun says in a definite tone. “There are some… troubling things that I said that were overheard, and we’re here to clear some things up.” 

Sicheng glances to Yangyang. 

“Who did you tell?” he asks their youngest. Yangyang at least looks guilty. 

“I explained everything to Jaemin…” He admits. 

“And Jaemin told all of Dream and Mark. Who knows who Mark has told. At least Taeyong,” Renjun cuts in. There’s a glower on his face, one he aims straight at Sicheng. It’s understandable. 

“Taeil is the only one I told in 127. Let’s hope Mark knows how to keep sensitive information private,” Sicheng sighs. Yukhei’s large hand pats his back with enthusiastic comfort. 

“You haven’t told any of  _ us _ ,” Kunhang stresses. There’s a wounded look on his face. “Kun-ge knows, obviously, but we only know what Yangyang overheard. But what  _ did _ he hear? You need surgery, but you don’t want to get it? Nothing makes sense.”

“There’s no reason to hide anything now,” Sicheng huffs. “I’m… sick, that’s true. But it’s something that can go away on its own, or it can go away with surgery. If I got the surgery it would mean a year off from any real physical work while I recover and go through physical therapy. The managers said it would push debut back until I’m ready to come back, which would mean another year of everyone sitting around and doing nothing.” 

“We’d rather have you healthy than debut sooner,” Dejun cuts in. His face his furrowed with worry.

“I know, but there’s a good chance this thing could go away on its own, no surgery needed or any delays. The managers and I decided to wait a few months to see if it cleared up by itself before taking such drastic action.” 

Yangyang looked conflicted by the time he finally spoke up.

“But you’re not getting better, ge.” There’s determination in his eyes. “Kun-ge says you’re dying. That you need the surgery. And we’ve all been worried Sicheng-ge. We’ve noticed you’re not okay, and now we know why. So we all want you to get the surgery. We don’t care if we have to wait.” 

“It’s hanahaki, isn’t it?” 

Every head whips towards Yukhei. He looks sheepish, but he’s looking straight at Sicheng. There’s no judgement in his eyes, or worry. Its understanding that shines back. 

“You started coughing right after you broke up with Yuta, it’s not hard to put the pieces together,” Yukhei elaborated. 

Sicheng stiffened, and Kun downright glared at their tallest member. Everyone else gaped at Sicheng. 

“Look, if Sicheng-ge thinks he’s getting better, then he’s getting better,” Yukei continues. “I’ve… I’ve had hanahaki before too. And I never needed the surgery. It’s hard, but you can get over it if you really try.” 

His arm drapes over Sicheng’s shoulders, and suddenly he feels less like he’s going into battle alone and more like the Spartans against the Persians. Smaller in numbers, but fierce. He feels like he has a fighting chance in this battle now. 

“Sicheng has been sick for months,” Kun says slowly. “And when we tried to hold a dance practice, he nearly passed out less than thirty minutes in. This isn’t a sign of progress, this is a sign of deterioration.”

He turns to Sicheng.

“Do you think you love Yuta any less? Or do you love him the same, even now?” 

The questions leave Sicheng reeling. He tenses instantly, and Yukhei pulls him closer.

“That’s not a fair question Kun-ge,” Yukhei pleads. 

“But he’s coughing up blood,” Kunghang adds. Sicheng shoots him a look of betrayal, and Chenle lets out a little gasp. “I saw your mask at practice Sicheng-ge. I don’t think you’re getting better either. I think it’s too dangerous to risk waiting for it to go away on its own.” 

“Just get the surgery,” Renjun states coldly. “It’s fine if everyone waits for a year. I’ll be done with Dream by then, and we can debut all together. Except for Chenle of course, until he graduates. Your time off gives the managers and producers time to rework the debut stuff to include eight instead of seven and makes sure you live long enough to see it happen.” 

There’s a new gasps at Renjun’s words, as well as a loud squeak from Chenle.

“Don’t speak to your elder like that,” Sicheng snaps. 

“Well then act like an elder! Stop being so  _ selfish _ ,” Renjun snaps back, and Sicheng can see the cracks in his cold facade. His pupils shake, uncertain, emotional. He’s scared, they all are. But no one is more scared than Sicheng. They don’t get to make this choice for him. 

“Renjun that’s  _ enough _ ,” Kun snaps. His hands are petting down Chenle’s sides to calm the youngest down. He still hasn’t spoken, his eyes just dart nervously between the other boys when they speak. His thumb nail looks ragged from where it’s pressed to his lips. Noticing Sicheng’s gaze, Kun quickly tugs Chenle’s hand away from his mouth again and presses a kiss behind his ear to calm him. 

“Sicheng. None of us can make you get the surgery, but we’re  _ begging _ here. I can’t sit here and watch you suffer like this anymore. We’ll be okay without you for a year, but we won’t be okay without you forever. I don’t know why we have to fight you on this still.”

There are so many reasons. Sicheng is stubborn enough to think he can do this on his own. If Yuta can fall out of love so easily, then so can Sicheng. There’s also a tiny part of him that thinks that maybe they can work this out. Maybe Yuta will sweep him off his feet one day and declare his love again. There’s another small part of him that thinks he deserves this. He deserves to suffer from his unrequited love, because he’s the one who pushed Yuta away. He was the one who was scared of affection and couldn’t express himself. He wouldn’t be sick if he treated Yuta the way he deserved. So this is his divine retribution. His burden to carry. If he cuts it out of his chest, then what did he learn? What justice does it do, except for making his brothers suffer unnecessarily. 

“I think you should tell Yuta,” Dejun murmurs. Sicheng shudders at the thought. “No, Sicheng-ge I mean it. I know you guys broke up and it hurt, but he still cares about you. He wouldn’t want to know he’s causing you to be so sick. Maybe if you had some closure you could start to get better.” 

Sicheng bit his lip. Dejun does have a point. Sicheng has been clinging to this idea of Yuta, of the man he called his and his alone. He’d be betraying that imagined Yuta by getting the surgery, but he’s betraying the Yuta that exists now by hiding this from him. Maybe all Sicheng needs to hear is that Yuta will never love him again to finally accept it. He has to kill the image of Yuta he’s clinging to and embrace reality. 

“Kun-ge.”

The man in question straightens in attention.

“Will you let me talk to Yuta at least? Talk to Yuta and see if that helps? Give me a week, and if I’m still getting worse I’ll talk to the managers and get the surgery.”

There’s a collective exhale from every boy in the circle. Yukhei squeezes his shoulder and Dejun takes his hand. 

“Okay Sicheng,” Kun agrees. “Talk to Yuta tomorrow. I’ll give you a week, and we’ll decide what to do then. But you have to check in with me once a day. If things start going downhill too quickly then we’re taking you to the hospital right away. I’m not taking any risks with your life.” 

“Fine. Can I go now?”

Kun gives a nod, and Sicheng uses Yukhei to push himself up to his feet. Everyone rises around him as well. Yukhei is the first to pull him into a hug.

“You talk to me if you need to, okay?” his voice is low, so only Sicheng can hear. “I won’t judge you. I’m on your side no matter what.”

Dejun is the next, giving him a fleeting hug. Kunhang follows shortly after to catch up with Dejun. Ten doesn’t hug him, but he does tug on Sicheng’s earlobe. 

“Don’t be stupid. We’re all self-sacrificing idiots, but that doesn’t mean we should be.” Ten gives him a bitter smile, and Sicheng immediately thinks of Ten’s knee. He understands the sentiment well. 

Renjun approaches with Yangyang clinging to his arm.

“I’m sorry ge,” Yangyang warbles. “I was just scared. I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” 

“Take care of yourself ge,” Renjun adds. Sicheng pulls them both into his arms, giving them both a pat on the head.

“Everything will be fine,” Sicheng promises. Yangyang gives him a peck on the cheek before they leave as well. That leaves Chenle and Kun.

As soon as the youngest wriggles out of Kun’s grasp, he’s running straight to Sicheng. When had this boy gotten so tall? He has to bend to bury his face in Sicheng’s shoulder. Sicheng pets his hand down the back of Chenle’s neck and holds him close. 

“Tell Yuta-hyung to meet us on the rooftop after you guys talk,” Chenle sniffles. “We’re gonna beat him up for hurting you. But don’t tell Mark-hyung, this is a Dream only event.”

Sicheng snorts and pulls out of the hug to flick Chenle’s forehead.

“No one’s beating anyone up. You’ll make Kun-ge go grey and retire. Taeyong-hyung too. Then we’ll be stuck with leader Johnny and no one wants that.” 

Chenly giggles and Sicheng can see the weight of the conversation melt off of him. He can see Kun smothering a laugh behind his hand from over Chenle’s shoulder as well. 

“Lele, go catch up with the other boys,” Kun directs. With a final blinding smile Chenle gallops out of the practice room. Now that the two are alone Sicheng lets his body slump with fatigue. He feels marginally better from yesterday, but that’s not saying much. There’s a feeling of dread hanging around him, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t know how he’d handle another attack of that size, let alone a bigger one.It makes his mouth tighten in worry.

“You have Taeil looking after you in the dorms, right?” Kun asks quietly. 

“Of course,” Sicheng assures. “He’s been taking care of me since Yuta and I broke up.” 

Taeil is probably the only reason he’s still up walking and eating. He’s an incredibly comforting presence, if not overly affectionate. 

“Good. You can go back to the dorm, then. I’ll stop by for dinner, I promised Doyoung I’d cook with him.” 

It’s permission enough. With another forced smile Sicheng turns around and walks straight out of the practice room. All he wants right now is his bed.

***

The flowers don’t go away when Sicheng wakes up the next day. Yuta’s gone from the room already, just like normal. It’s a day off, and he and Jaehyun had whispered about plans of seeing the new romance movie that hit theaters together. There’s the telltale sound of video games drifting from the living room, as well as pans clanking in the kitchen. As Sicheng rouses to the world, he lays in bed and enjoys the life that thrums in their dorm. 

Eventually he stands, and the change in position causes his throat to tickle. He clears his throat once, but it only makes it worse. Covering his mouth with his hand, Sicheng slips out of his room and into the bathroom. It doesn’t take long until he’s hunched over the sink and coughing hoarsely. He feels it again, that odd tickle in the back of his throat and up his trachea until there’s the bitter taste of plant on his tongue. He peels the petal from the inside of his cheek and crushes it in his hand. But it doesn’t stop there. He coughs, and coughs, until a few flutter from between his lips and into the sink. Sicheng just stares, that same numbness and denial creeping over him.

And then the door opens.

Taeil’s hair is a rumpled nest as he steps into the room. His eyes widen and he gives a little jump when he noticed Sicheng hunched over the sink.

“Good morning,” Taeil murmurs, immediately padding over. He drapes himself onto Sicheng’s back and nuzzles into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Taeil-hyung,” Sicheng whispers. 

“Hm?”

“Taeil-hyung, I need help.”

That has the eldest straightening immediately. He moves to Sicheng’s side, ready to ask what’s wrong, when the color in the sink catches his eyes. Carefully, Taeil pulls each flower petal out of the sink and clutches them in his fist.

“Oh Sichengie,” he breathes. “Chengie I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry baby.” 

There’s so much pain in Taeil’s voice, so much pity, that Sicheng cracks. Tears overwhelm his eyes and choke his throat in an instant. He whimpers, turning to Taeil and curling into him.

“Hyung, what do I do? What do I do?” He sobs. The man he loves does not love him. That man he wants to spend his life with has lost hope in them. All of his fears of this ever happening could never compare to facing it head on. 

“I don’t know Sichengie. It’s not my love.” Taeil carefully wipes his face and takes Sicheng’s hands. “C’mon baby, let’s go to the room.”

Taeil holds Sicheng in his lap while he cries. It feels like grief washing over him, swallowing him whole. The death of his relationship, the death of his future. The flowers themselves are a death sentence, but Sicheng could never mourn for himself. Just for what he’s lost. 

It takes nearly an hour for Sicheng to calm down. In that time Taeyong peeks his head into the room and murmurs quietly that lunch is ready. There’s concern in his big eyes, but Taeil waves him off with a “later”. 

“I have to break up with him.” It’s the first thing Sicheng says since the bathroom, and his voice is thick with emotion. 

“Is that what you think is best?” Taeil asks. Sicheng nods.

“Everyone knows our relationship has been spiraling lately. And now he doesn’t even feel love for me. What’s the point in trapping him in an unhappy relationship? If we’re not together, I can get over him quickly. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Taeil hums and strokes his fingers through Sicheng’s hair. It’s still knotted from turning in his sleep, but Taeil is gentle as he works through them. 

“Talk to him sooner rather than later then,” Taeil suggests gently.

“I’ll do it tonight. No use in dragging it out.” Sicheng sighs and rubs at his eyes. Now that the tears have stopped his emotions ebb back to a dull ache in the back of his mind. They’re much easier to ignore like that. 

“I’ll be here for you, right after it’s done.” Taeil kisses his cheek. “Everything will be alright Chengie. I’m just sorry you have to go through this.”

Sorry for what? It’s Sicheng’s own fault. But he doesn’t say that, because he knows it’ll upset Taeil. So he just nods and laces his fingers with Taeil’s. 

“Let’s get you some food,” Taeil decides. He guides him to his feet and uses the tissues on his bedside table to clean up Sicheng’s face. When he’s deemed presentable, the pair wander out into the dorm. 

No one pays them much mind as they slip into the kitchen. Until Taeyong looks up from the sink where he’s washing dishes.

“Chengie,” he greets. There’s still that worry painted on his face. Sicheng sighs and turns to Taeil. 

“Can I talk to Taeyong-hyung for a second?” 

Taeil nods and quickly flees the room. When they’re alone Sicheng steps up to the sink next to Taeyong and picks up their drying towel. Then he grabs the first pan he sees in the clean side of the sink and starts at the task. They don’t speak for a few moments, Taeyong handing Sicheng new dishes and Sicheng soaking up the water. 

“I know you want to be a good leader hyung,” Sicheng begins. Taeyong’s hands stutter. Sicheng pushes on.

“I know you do, and I appreciate that hyung. You’ve always taken such good care of me, and I love you for it.” 

He sets the plate he’s working on back down and turns to Taeyong. When Taeyong meets his eyes, Sicheng makes sure to lock their gazes, force Taeyong to understand his intention. 

“But I need you to forget about being the leader just this once. I need you to be Yuta’s best friend instead. He… He’s going to need you. You’re the only one who he’ll let look after him. But he won’t let you if he thinks you’re on both of our sides. So I need you to be Yuta’s friend, and not NCT’s leader. Just this once. For me.” 

There’s understanding shining in Taeyong’s eyes. He looks so, so conflicted. His teeth have sunk into his thin bottom lip so hard the flesh loses color at the indents. 

“Taeil-hyung will look after me,” Sicheng assures. “I won’t be alone. And I won’t cause problems for the band. I’m just asking you as your dongsaeng to please do this for me.  _ Please _ .” 

Taeyong sighs and goes to run his hand through his hair, only to stop when he realizes he’s wearing a soapy rubber glove over it. 

“Okay,” Taeyong says finally. “But you have to promise me if things are getting too hard for you, you’ll talk to me. Even if you have Taeil-hyung. You’re my friend too.” 

Sicheng’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“It’s because I’m your friend that I’m asking you for this. I still love him hyung, I don’t want to be the reason he hurts anymore.”

“Oh Chengie,” Taeyong gasps. “Chengie, he still loves you too. Even if… even if you guys didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you.”

Sicheng’s face turns to stone. 

“Thank you for doing this Taeyong-hyung,” he says in a clipped tone. Taeyong’s frown deepens but Sicheng ignores him. Instead he sets the towel down and turns out of the kitchen. He walks past the living room, straight back into his room. 

Taeil comes in a few minutes later, a plate full of what looks like last night’s leftovers in his hand. He sits on Sicheng’s bed next to him and places the plate on his lap. They fall into silence again as Sicheng eats, but Taeil doesn’t seem to mind. He idly hums under his breath, and the pleasant sound has the knots in Sicheng’s head start to come undone. 

It’s not until the sun goes down that Yuta finally returns home from his day out with Jaehyun. There’s a relaxed smile on his face that Sicheng hasn’t seen in a long while. It only falters slightly when Sicheng approaches.

“Yuta? Can we talk?” 

Yuta nods, and he takes Sicheng’s hand. It’s more intimate than whatever the hell they did the night before. He leads Sicheng through the dorm until they reach the roof access. The summer air is so pleasant, free from the day’s humidity. They both sit at the edge, right against the fence that keeps anyone from tumbling to the ground. Seoul twinkles peacefully in the distance. Sicheng tugs his knees up under his chin and lets out a puff of air. 

There’s so much Sicheng wants to say, like a road map is laid out in front of him. But all he can think of is the final destination. He has no idea how to get there.

“Yuta…” 

The space is filled with the sound of traffic and far away conversations. Yuta rocks in place next to Sicheng. 

“I know Winko.” There’s resolution in Yuta’s voice. “I wish… I wish I could have been more of a man for you. I wish I could’ve been patient and soft-spoken and chivalrous. But I think we both know why we’re sitting up here on this roof, and I think we both know it’s for the best.”

Sicheng’s heart twists with confliction. He wants to snap at Yuta, tell him none of it is Yuta’s fault, it’s all Sicheng’s. But Yuta is the one who fell out of love, so isn’t it is fault after all? Who gets to point the fingers in the relationship, if they’re both aiming pointers and thumbs at each other’s chests. 

“I just want you to be happy again,” Sicheng murmurs. “I want to see you smile again. But that can’t happen the way things are. And it won’t happen, unless we’re free from this pain.”

Sicheng’s fingers tighten around his biceps. There’s no dancing around this any longer. Yuta doesn’t look sad, just resigned. There’s no use drawing out what they both know is inevitable. 

“I want to let you go, Yuta. That’s the only way I think we’ll survive this. I want you to walk off of this roof a free man, and I want you to forget about me. So I can forget about you too, and find my own happiness.” 

This is for himself as much as it’s for Yuta. There’s no use clinging to a dead relationship, not unless he wants to join it six feet under the ground. It’s harsh, selfish to think. But that’s just like how Sicheng had been when they were together. It’s what he deserves, and what he speaks into the air between them. The golden scissors have been drawn, and the worn red thread between them is snipped. Goodbye first love, hello to the unknown. 

“Anything you want Sichengie, you know that. If you want to be free, you’re free,” Yuta promises. The words should be affectionate, but they lack any warmth. Yuta is too tired to placate Sicheng. But it’s not like he deserves anything from Yuta anymore. All he deserves is respite. 

“Be happy, Yuta.” Sicheng finally turns to the other man, and the inches feel like miles between them. The light reflected in Yuta’s eyes might as well be constellations peeking through the dull Seoul sky. “Be happy and be your own man. Not one that has to live up to an unreachable standard. I’ll always be grateful for you. But I can’t be selfish anymore. I can’t ask for your companionship when you get nothing in return. The greatest gift I can give you is letting you go.” 

It’s too much. Looking at Yuta, seeing him press his mouth together in agreement with Sicheng’s words. He knows Sicheng is nothing but a burden. It’s why his love is gone. It’s why they’re out here in the smog and not tucked together under the sheets. Not even their combined body heat can keep the spark alive anymore. 

Sicheng stands, and Yuta stays. His eyes tear from Sicheng’s, and there’s a slight upward turn of his lips, a brittle one. A look of acceptance, of suspicions confirmed. The break up is not a surprise to either of them, and Yuta seems to be taking it well enough. So Sicheng turns on his heel.

He marches right back into his shared room and crawls into Taeil’s bed, letting his vulnerability soak their eldest’s nightshirt. 

Yuta never returns to their shared room. Sicheng doesn’t cough up a single petal that night. Maybe letting go is the greatest sign of love.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a terrible, overwhelming feeling. He feels like he’s dying. 
> 
> And then he is.

Sicheng does not expect a fight when he returns to the dorm from the practice room. He doesn’t expect anything but the soft comfort of his bed, and some alone time to recharge after such an emotional group meeting. His chest hurts and his eyes throb in their sockets and nausea rolls in his stomach. Sleep, it’s his singular focus as he punches in the door code and fumbles his way into the dorm.

Taeyong is the one who greets him. 

When you know Lee Taeyong, you know him to be a gentle soul. It’s the cute lilt to his words and thin dancing limbs and throaty laughter. Taeyong off stage can be like a child, so sweet and affectionate. He can also be maternal, with how delicately his long hands guide them all and how gently he wields his power. The Taeyong he’s trusted to lead him for years now is a lovely man.

The Taeyong standing in their living room now is vibrating with anger. There’s a dark glint in his pretty eyes, so wild and hurt that it only makes the snarl of his lips look even more intimidating. This is the Taeyong that strangers see, the cold prince with a violent brow bone and a voice deep enough to cut. He looks like a warrior, a vengeful one, and the sight is so jarring Sicheng freezes, can do nothing but blink.

There’s two thoughts that run in his head, before Taeyong opens his angry mouth.

First, he remembers Renjun’s words like an omen.  _ Who knows who Mark has told. At least Taeyong. _

Second, he admires how in just two days he’s managed to turn both of his sweet leaders into men of unbridled rage. 

“How dare you keep this from me,” Taeyong speaks, and his voice is so gravelly and guttural. It sends a shiver all the way down to Sicheng’s feet. He’s not prepared to deal with this, to have to face so many people all at once. Sicheng’s eyes cut to the floor. 

“Taeil-hyung knew, Kun-ge knew, and our managers knew. I thought that was enough people to embarrass myself in front of.” 

Taeyong makes a sound of disbelief.

“Embarrass? You think this is about shame? You came to me, you told me what you were doing was for the best, and that you’d  _ talk  _ to me if you weren’t okay. You weren’t okay then, Sicheng, and you lied right to my face. You’ve been lying to  _ all  _ of us, because why? You’d rather turn yourself into a martyr than fix your relationship? We are a team. A team is built on trust. Do you not even trust your own leader?” 

Taeyong’s fists are shaking at his sides, and Sicheng trembles with them. His body aches to lay down, begs for it. His head throbs with every pulse in his temple. 

“I do trust you hyung. You know that. You know what I trusted you with when I talked to you that night. I didn’t tell you I was sick because I had other people to take care of me. You had him to take care of.” Sicheng’s own frustration grows. Has he not explained his reasoning the best he could? Can’t someone see his rationale?

Taeyong’s jaw tightens.

“If you think shielding Yuta from everything is the way to show you care you’re  _ wrong  _ Sicheng. I never wanted to interfere when you two were together, but this is insane. Yuta is a grown man, one who can deal with difficult things. Hiding things from him isn’t going to make him happier. It’s just going to piss him off when it all blows up in your face.”

Dread seeps into Sicheng then. Slowly, it drips, burning ice cold in his gut. 

“But you didn’t interfere,” Sicheng challenges, pleads. Taeyong’s eyes are resolute, like an executioner. 

“He deserved to know Sicheng. He’s the reason you’ve got flowers growing in your chest, which means he’s the only other person aside from you who can stop it. If you guys just  _ talked  _ about it instead of dumping him then I doubt you would’ve gotten this sick. And look at you now. Chengie, you’re wasting away. Don’t you think Yuta cares enough to want you to live at least?” 

Sicheng knows Taeyong has his reasons. He knows his leader is just trying to help. But Sicheng just feels like all of his agency has been ripped away from him. His secret has been told to his China unit members, to all of the youngsters, to his leader, and now to the man who caused it all. 

“How could you,” Sicheng hisses, his fists tightening at his sides. God, has he ever felt this angry before? Everything feels like it’s crashing around him, like he’s been thrown into a tempest with rocks lashed to his ankles. His lungs feel tight, like the flowers are lashing out in anger alongside him. 

Sicheng-”

“No!” His voice is loud, ripped straight from his core. “I was going to tell him  _ tonight _ Taeyong. I was going to work everything out, make a last ditch effort to make things right and if not get the surgery. That was  _ my  _ decision.” 

A cough racks through his body, and he automatically cups his hand over his mouth. He clutches the damp petals in his hand and crushes them in his palm. Taeyong looks on in shock. 

“You’ve destroyed every chance I had of getting closure. He’s going to resent me for keeping this from him. He’ll _hate_ me. How can I cope with that, after he’s already lost interest in me? I can’t watch his apathy turn to animosity. I can’t-”

He cuts himself off, frustrated tears filling his eyes. He doesn’t even want to think about how his next interaction with Yuta will go. Will he yell? Will he berate Sicheng for being such an idiot? Tell him of course he fell out of love, when Sicheng was such a stubborn fool. Sicheng’s already so exhausted from the stupid intervention he’d been put through this morning. He doesn’t have the energy for this. 

“You’ve ruined  _ everything  _ Lee Taeyong. I won’t  _ ever _ forgive you.” 

And just like that, Sicheng breaks. 

He sinks to the floor, his legs folding underneath him. His wet face his cradled between his hands, and he just sobs. It’s over, it’s all over. His bandmates all know what a coward he is, how pathetic he is for clinging to such a hopeless love. Yuta will never take him back, and he’ll be forced to get the surgery. Weak little Sicheng, all alone once again. 

It’s a terrible, overwhelming feeling. He feels like he’s dying. 

And then he is. 

As if sensing the opportunity, the plant in Sicheng’s lungs flares. One second he’s hiccuping through his cries, and the next he’s choking. His whole body convulses and he bends forward, trying to force the petals out of his body. 

All he can do is watch in detached horror as the wood floor in front of him is coated in red. No matter how much he coughs, how much spills out of him, it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t give him a second to breathe. He can feel the petals clogging his throat, every muscle straining to  _ get them out  _ but they never stop. 

His head throbs, and fear shoots through his bloodstream. Or maybe adrenaline. He claws at his throat, hands tightening to try to push the flowers out from the outside. 

“Oh my god, oh my  _ god _ .” Taeyong’s panicked voice barely registers in Sicheng’s mind. There’s a thump next to him, and warm hands on his back. 

“Sicheng, what do I do?” Taeyong is pleading, but there’s nothing Sicheng can do. His head swims, body screeching for oxygen. He tries desperately to breathe in, but that just forces the petals back down his throat. He gags, heaves, and a clump of them splatters wetly against the wood. He takes one large gasping inhale before they come up again. 

“Taeil!” Taeyong screeches, clinging desperately to Sicheng’s hunched form. Sicheng can’t even cough them up anymore, just trembles and drags his nails desperately against the floor. There’s a pounding of feet, and Taeil rounds the corner. His wide eyes find the two of them in the center of the room and he gasps. 

“I’m calling for an ambulance,” he rushes out. Sicheng doubts he’ll be conscious for when help comes. 

His body slumps, and he stares at the row of shoes by the front door despondently. Taeyong shakes him, panicking, but it’s all a haze. It’s like his ears are blocked with cotton as the door opens. 

And in steps Nakamoto Yuta. 

It’s like a second wind shoots through Sicheng. A final series of coughs wracks out of him, clearing his airway for one wheezy inhale. Isn’t it fitting, dying while staring at the cause of it all? He looks so beautiful, even fresh off of a run and looking stunned. 

He watches as Yuta drops next to him and shoves Taeyong off of him. Sicheng is pulled against Yuta’s chest, and it’s so, so warm. Sicheng’s eyes shut and he lets himself enjoy this, even with his head pounding from lack of oxygen. 

But Yuta’s clenched hands press right under his ribs and then his pressing forcefully. 

“C’mon Chengie,” Yuta grunts close in his ears, pumping his fists against Sicheng’s diaphragm. It forces him to cough with whatever oxygen is left in his lungs. With Yuta holding him tight, even if it’s for the Heimlich, it’s enough to get the flow of petals to come. He chokes up the last of them, making sure to shove a hand deep down his throat to dig out the ones that cling with shaking fingers. 

Sicheng settles, covered in flowers and spit and blood, his body greedily sucking oxygen. He’s so scared that Yuta is going to let him go now, leave him to have the hanahaki flair again. He’s delirious, gripping Yuta’s wrist with all of the strength he has left. 

“Yuta I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t go, please, I’m sorry,” Sicheng tried to focus his eyes on Yuta’s face over his shoulder. He can feel the accelerated rhythm of Yuta’s own breathing from where his chest is still pressed to Sicheng’s back. 

“I’ve got you baby, I’m not letting you go. Why don’t you rest, hm Winko? We’ve got help coming but you look so tired. Can you close your eyes for me sweetie?” 

Yuta’s voice is so soft, so sweet. He presses a kiss to Sicheng’s pointed ear and strokes his hands up and down Sicheng’s chest. Sicheng  _ is  _ tired, the adrenaline leaving his system and leaving him battered. He tilts his head against Yuta’s shoulder and closes his eyes. His hand doesn’t leave Yuta’s wrist. 

“‘m so tired Yuta,” he whispers. “I’m always so tired.” 

Yuta takes a sharp breath in, but his hands don’t stop their gentle soothing. 

“Don’t worry about that now Winko. Just rest. Your Yuta is here now.” 

Doesn’t that sound nice? His Yuta is here, the nightmare of over. He lets himself sink into the blackness swirling at the edges of his consciousness. 

***

The water is warm as it laps at his sides, so much warmer than the night air nipping at his damp skin. With his eyes closed Sicheng focuses on letting his mind relax. He’s floating, buoyant, drifting across the surface of the pool. The sounds of Bangkok at night drift subtly to the hotel pool, but removed enough that it doesn’t disturb the peace. 

There’s the sound of rippling water, and suddenly hands are gripping Sicheng. His eyes fly open and laughter startles out of him as he’s lifted out of the water, clutched to another’s chest. 

“Gotcha,” Yuta growls into Sicheng’s neck, and he playfully takes a bite while twirling Sicheng around. Sicheng flails, hands slapping at Yuta’s chest. 

“Put me down,” he whines, still laughing. He kicks his legs so they splash up water, but it’s useless. They’re both already wet. Yuta just clutches him closer and walks them towards the edge of the pool. 

“We snuck out to be together, and here you are ignoring me. I won’t stand for it,” Yuta reasons. Sicheng wraps his arms around Yuta’s shoulders. 

“You’re like a dog,” Sicheng giggles. “If I leave you alone for two seconds you’re jumping all over me.” 

Yuta scoffs. 

“Is it wrong to want my boyfriend’s affections? Don’t be so cold to me Chengie.” 

They reach the pool’s edge, and Yuta hoists Sicheng to sit on the wall, legs dangling in the water. It’s still summer, so even with the sun gone the air feels comfortable. Yuta steps between Sicheng’s legs and grabs his waist. 

“You knew what you were getting into,” Sicheng shoots back. Yuta’s eyes glimmer with a challenge. 

“My cold prince,” Yuta purrs. His hands slide down Sicheng’s hips to the top of his thighs. He steps closer, nearly chest to chest with Sicheng. “Has the Bangkok night not warmed you right up for me?”

Sicheng pretends to think about it as his arms wind around Yuta’s shoulders. 

“I think I know something that could warm me up,” he says. Yuta’s answering smile is victorious.

As Yuta kisses him, all Sicheng can think is that he’s never really felt happiness quite like this. 

***

Sicheng knows he’s in the hospital before he even opens his eyes. There’s that sterile stench in the air, and the steady beep of a heart monitor. There’s something plugging his nose, taped to his cheeks, and it makes his face scrunch as he rouses. At the little grunt he lets out there’s the sound of shifting fabric. Then his hand is gently taken into another’s. 

“Sicheng?”

The voice cracks, either from dehydration or lack of use. Or maybe both. Sicheng blinks his eyes open. The room is dim, the lighting low and the window outside showing the sky deep into the night. Sicheng’s eyes wander into the room and he finds Yuta at his side. 

“Hyung, you look so tired,” Sicheng croaks. The bags under Yuta’s eyes are deep, like bruises against his pallad skin. His hair is disheveled into knots around his head like it always is after an international flight. Yuta looks aged, like stress has burrowed its way deep into the planes of his face and clings to the contoured shadows of his cheeks. 

But Yuta cracks a smile, a tight and insincere one. It adds some familiar warmth to his face.

“Now’s not the time to be worrying about me,” Yuta murmurs. His thumb strokes slow circles against the back of Sicheng’s hand. There’s a chill that’s settled all throughout Sicheng’s limbs, so the simple touch feels so hot. He wants to tug Yuta onto the bed with him, make him lie with him until this terrible iciness in his veins thaws. The desperate look in Yuta’s eyes makes Sicheng think he’d do anything Sicheng asks. 

“How worried do I need to be about me?” Sicheng counters. He can hear the raw scrape of his voice, but he’s so numb from whatever medications they’re pumping into him that he can’t discern the extent of the damage his last attack caused. 

“The doctors said you weren’t deprived of oxygen long enough to damage your brain,” Yuta explains quietly. He scoots closer to the bed, shoulders hunched forward. “They wanted to wheel you straight into surgery, but the managers wouldn’t let them. When Kun got here he was really angry with them.”

Sicheng perked at the mention of Kun.

“Are the others here?” He asks, curious. Yuta chuckles breathily and nods. 

“I think everyone has been here at one point or another. There are a few guys waiting outside for you. They set up a bunch of chairs in the hallway just for us, said we were too distracting in the waiting room.” 

That sends a flustered warmth through Sicheng. He knew the bond they all shared as bandmates is strong, but waiting dutifully outside of his hospital room? When they all have such tightly packed schedules? It makes Sicheng feel so cared for. Even more so that they’re giving Sicheng this time alone with Yuta. 

“You’re here too,” Sicheng mumbles. “Thank you. I know this is… hard. You don’t have to be.”

Yuta’s face twists with hurt and he pulls Sicheng’s hand closer, nearly cradling it to his chest. 

“Of course I’m here, Winko.” Yuta takes a calming breath, a troubled look still on his face. “I think we need to talk, baby. Properly. We didn’t do it right all those months ago and I’m so  _ angry  _ at myself. All of this could’ve been avoided if I wasn’t such a stubborn fool.”

Yuta’s voice chokes up at the end and he clamps his lips shut, eyes drifting down to their twined hands instead of Sicheng’s face. 

“It’s not your fault hyung,” Sicheng assures. He scoots up in bed until his back is pressed the thin pillow he’d been resting on. Yuta’s body follows along automatically, shifting in his chair to keep close. Sicheng takes his hand out of Yuta’s grasp to run his fingers through the older man’s hair, working carefully to untangle the knots and smooth it down. “We drifted apart, it happens. I wouldn’t want you staying in a relationship you weren’t happy in.” 

“We drifted because I didn’t understand, Sicheng,” Yuta shoots back. “We were fighting all the time, and with you preparing to debut in China I just felt so much distance between us. And I know we’ve never been the best at communicating, so I just started making assumptions. I thought I was the only one loving in this relationship, and that you were ready to leave me behind. I guess I started distancing myself too, to protect myself. It just felt like the end was inevitable and I didn’t want to be blindsided by it.”

It hurts to hear Yuta say that. Sicheng had never wanted Yuta to feel unloved. It’s the bare minimum of a relationship, right? To express your devotion to the other. If Yuta couldn’t see that love, it only makes sense that he lost his own love in the relationship. 

“I don’t know how that’s your fault,” Sicheng murmurs. “There’s two of us involved in a relationship. If you felt like I was drifting than that’s how you felt, that’s how I was treating you. We just never know how to really talk to each other about what’s bothering us.”

“I know,” Yuta sighs. His gaze turns sharp. “Like this. You should’ve  _ told  _ me you had hanahaki, Chengie. It was so hard to hear that from Yong. I was so, so mad at first. It just felt like another slap to my face, that you were hiding things from me. I didn’t know what to do, I was so pissed.”

Sicheng had assumed that’s how Yuta would feel. It’s why he wanted to be the one to tell him directly. It makes his anger towards Taeyong curl back in the recess of his mind. 

“But when I came back and you were there, dying on the floor in front of me, all of that anger went away. It’s like I could finally  _ see  _ how much you suffered for me. In some sick way it showed me how much you care, how you were willing to go through months of that just because of me.” 

Yuta sits up straighter and squares his shoulders. 

“It made me realize how wrong I was about everything. And if you’ll have me Sicheng, I want to prove to you that I can be the man who loves you again. No surgery, no falling out of love. I want to undo all of the hurt I’ve caused you.”

His promise is sealed by the brush of his lips to the back of his hand. 

“Yuta…” Sicheng breathes. God, it feels too good to be real. Maybe this is all some elaborate dream, and he’s still dying on their dorm floor. Maybe he’s already dead, and this is the heaven he’s fallen into. 

“You’ve loved me this long Sicheng, let me do the same,” Yuta replies firmly. He cups Sicheng’s face, thumb pressed gently against Sicheng’s cheekbone. “Don’t think I’ve spent these months apart not missing you. I have, even if I didn’t love you the way I should’ve.” 

Sicheng’s too overwhelmed for this. His eyes screw shut and he lets out a shuddering breath. Slowly his hand comes up to cup Yuta’s. 

“Please,” he breathes. “There’s nothing I want more than to have you again.”

It’s too much for both of them. Yuta chokes out a sound and he’s leaning forward, kissing Sicheng messily. It’s too emotional and desperate, but Sicheng doesn’t mind. He winds his arms around Yuta’s shoulders and holds him close as their lips meet for the first time in over six months. 

When Yuta pulls back Sicheng feels dizzy in the best way. 

“I feel better already,” Sicheng jokes. He really can’t tell what the flowers in his lungs are up to, but he breathes easily through the tube in his nose. 

“That makes me happy,” Yuta murmurs. His eyes cast towards the door. “I know everyone else is really worried about you. Is it okay if I let them in?” 

Sicheng nods. He’s put his members through so much these past few days. He wants to soothe their worry and show he’s fine. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel if one of his members ended up in the hospital so seriously. 

Yuta squeezes his hand then stands, making his way across the small hospital room to the door. He steps outside, and it only takes moments for the door to be flung open. 

If Yuta had looked tired, Taeil looks absolutely exhausted as he shuffles into the room. He seats himself on the bed right by Sicheng’s side and strokes his hair. 

“Chengie, how are you feeling?” He asks. Sicheng pats his thigh and smiles. 

“I’m okay.” His eyes cut to Yuta, where he’s talking to Kun at the entrance to the room. 

“Yuta and I… We talked,” he adds shyly. “I think it’s going to be better. He said he wants to try again, and I trust him.”

The look of relief on Taeil’s face is palpable. The oldest member has been by his side from day one, looking over him when no one else knew. Sicheng getting better means as much to Taeil as it does to himself. 

“Oh Sicheng, I’m so glad.” Taeil smiles warmly and slumps down against the bed, throwing his arm around Sicheng’s waist. He’s just as warm as Yuta so Sicheng is pliant for once when it comes to affection. 

There’s another shuffle at the door and Sicheng looks up. It’s Taeyong, speaking lowly with Yuta, wringing his hands in front of him nervously. His dark eyes flit over to Sicheng and he flashes a tight, nervous smile. Sicheng tenses. 

“Hyung, I don’t want to see you right now,” Sicheng says definitively. The hurt smacks violently onto Taeyong’s face. 

“Sicheng-ah, I’m sorry. Can we please talk about it?” Taeyong asks quietly. He looks so small, hunched in one of Johnny’s hoodies and a beanie pushing back his hair. But Sicheng is still so, so frustrated with him. 

“I don’t have the energy to talk about this now Taeyong-hyung,” Sicheng sighs. “Can it wait until we’re home? I’m tired, and being angry isn’t going to help me heal.” 

Taeyong bites his lip and nods, though it looks painful for him to agree. With their group there’s no way you can let conflicts drag out. There’s too many members, too unstable of groups to let arguments linger. Their policy since before debut is to work out their issues as soon as they happen, no matter how frustrated or angry you are. But no one has ever been in the hospital like this, and Sicheng’s already feeling the pull of sleep for being awake for so long. 

“C’mon Yong,” Yuta says gently. He flashes Sicheng a look, and Sicheng gives a tiny nod. Yuta leads Taeyong out of the room and shuts the door quietly behind him. Sicheng slumps back against his pillow and sighs, circling his fingers around Taeil’s wrist and squeezing. 

Kun takes the moment to cross the room and pull a chair up to the other side of the bed. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Sicheng promises Kun, because he can already tell what his leader wants to say. Kun startles then laughs, surprised at Sicheng’s directness. 

“Okay, I won’t push you to. I just know he means it when he says sorry,” Kun replies. Taeil shifts next to Sicheng.

“He’s been so worried,” Taeil explains. “After they took you to the hospital he spent hours cleaning up the living room by himself. Jungwoo tried to help but he was so stubborn about it, picking up all of the petals and wiping everything away. I know he feels responsible.”

“Isn’t he?” Sicheng mutters bitterly. Yuta and he could’ve had the same conversation in the comfort of his bedroom, but while he’s drugged up in a hospital bed. 

“We’re still human Sicheng,” Kun intercepts. “As your leaders we just want to do what’s best for you. Sometimes we end up interfering when we don’t need to. Sometimes we don’t interfere soon enough. We make mistakes too, ours just come with the burden not being allowed those missteps.”

Sicheng frowns, but deep down he knows Kun is right. Taeyong told Yuta because he didn’t want Sicheng to suffer anymore. He did it out of concern and kindness. All of Sicheng’s resentment is childish petiness, not any valid criticism. He will make up with Taeyong, just not right now. 

“I know, ge. I promise I’ll work it out with him. I’m just overwhelmed right now. I don’t need too emotionally draining conversations at once.”

Taeil strokes his arm.

“Why don’t you sleep then?” He suggests. “We’ll be here, and I’m sure Yuta will be back soon. Like you said, you need to heal.”

“Stay here with me?” He asks quietly. 

“Of course baby,” Taeil coos. Sicheng scoots to make more room, and Taeil lays fully at his side. He hooks their ankles together and keeps his arm draped over Sicheng’s waist. Kun drops his hand in favor of petting his hair. 

With that, Sicheng lets himself fall back asleep. 

***

The shower runs loudly in the background, and Dejun’s singing filters through the bathroom door. It’s a familiar sound in an unfamiliar hotel room, and it makes Sicheng smile as he flops onto his bed. His own hair is damp and dripping down his face, his towel wrapped around his shoulders. He opens up his laptop and almost immediately a video call flashes on the screen. When he answers the app immediately fills with Yuta’s beaming face. 

“Winko!” he calls happily. Sicheng can see the living room behind him, and the sounds of the members somewhere deeper in the dorm. 

“Hi Yuta,” he greets with a grin. He props his head up on his chin and lets his legs swing behind his head. 

“How’s Beijing so far? I watched your livestream from earlier, you guys look like you’re having fun. Even if I couldn’t understand what any of you were saying.” 

Sicheng laughs, fondness and yearning curling in his stomach. It never gets easier to accept these calls. He always loves getting to speak to Yuta, but most times it just makes him wish he was there in the room with him, instead of hundreds of miles away back in Seoul. But it’s enough for now, seeing his handsome face through the screen. 

“It’s been fun. We have a bunch of photoshoots scheduled for this week and then a variety show the following. Not a lot of stage stuff anymore.” 

Yuta nods as Sicheng talks, but there’s a sudden yelling that distracts him. 

“Yuukuri, is that Cheng-ah?” Taeyong’s face pops into the frame, squishing against Yuta’s side. He beams as soon as he sees Sicheng. 

“Chengie, we miss you!” He promises. Sicheng giggles. 

“Miss you too hyung,” he assures. “I watched the Wakey-Wakey video, you guys did a good job.” 

Taeyong pouts. 

“It would’ve been better with you there. Come home to us soon~” 

Yuta shoves at Taeyong’s arm, clearly fed up with his boyfriend time being eaten into. 

“Alright, alright. Say bye to Yongie,” Yuta says firmly. 

“Bye hyung,” Sicheng says with a wave. Taeyong shoots him a kiss and ducks off the screen. 

“Now I have you all to myself,” Yuta grins.

They talk for an hour, catching each other up on what they’ve missed. Dejun comes out of the shower at some point and shyly says hi to Yuta as well, before disappearing into Kun and Yangyang’s room to give them some privacy. 

When Sicheng’s eyes glance at the time and he realizes he has to be asleep within the next fifteen minutes if he wants to get at least five hours of sleep. 

“I think it’s bedtime for me,” Sicheng pouts. Yuta looks equally playfully distressed at the suggestion of hanging up. 

“I love you,” Yuta states. They always make sure to end their calls this way, and every time Sicheng knows it’s not a lie.

“I love you too,” Sicheng promises.

When he hangs up that same bitter loneliness settles in his chest, but it’s offset by the sincerity of his parting words. They love each other, even with the miles of distance, the lack of face to face interaction. He knows it in the sparkle in Yuta’s eyes whenever they make eye contact through the camera. He knows it in Yuta’s awkward stumbling through genuine communication. He knows it in the anemone inked into the skin of his hip, vibrant red and black to remind Sicheng that he’ll never forget, never make the same mistake again. 

When Sicheng falls asleep as Dejun slips back into the room, it’s as a man who’s heart is heavy with love and lungs light and free.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's part one! I plan on exploring Yuta and Winwin's relationship more in the next part, as well as the end of their relationship and where they stand now. Part one was more about laying the groundworks of their relationship. If you feel so inclined, I would really appreciate kudos and comments! It's been a while since I've written, and seeing feedback always motivates me when it comes to writing. See you guys for part two!


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